Sinful. Charlotte Featherstone
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He had elevated her to the status of a goddess in his mind and she knew it was lie. She was not a goddess. Plain was the most honest description of her.
Her gloved hands fidgeted against the handle of her bag as the drizzle changed to raindrops, which began to fall earnestly above her head. What was she doing here? she questioned. She took a step to leave, when a large black town coach, led by four gray horses stopped at the sidewalk. Raising her head, she took in the gleaming black exterior and the shining gold accents. A lump formed in her throat. He really was rich, she reminded herself, and so far removed from her humble upbringing. They had little to offer each other, except the pleasures of their bodies. Nothing could come of this, and Jane did not know whether to feel satisfied or saddened by the notion.
“His lordship awaits inside,” the coachman said from his perch. As if on cue, the door opened, revealing black velvet squabs on the door. The interior was gently lit by tiny oil lamps. Shadows played deep in the interior, and Jane nearly ran, frightened like a silly little pea wit.
The wind gusted, sending the flame of one lamp sputtering, then dying as a large shadow moved across the width of the carriage. It was followed by the appearance of a black boot. With a swift movement, the stairs unraveled with a clang, and his lordship appeared.
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